If You Go Away
by Can'tStopImagining
Summary: Alternate ending to 4.08 (and beyond). Patsy/Delia.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Okay so because I am a complete emotional wreck and this is my way of dealing with things, I have already offered up a 'resolution' to this storyline, but here's another. This is slightly A/U, though it follows along with the episode (I altered some dialogue, fiddled with a few facts etc.) This chapter's just the basics, but I'll hopefully have another chapter up shortly.

* * *

She'd kissed her goodbye with an almost drunken smile, watching her fly off around the corner, coat flapping behind her, and she couldn't help but take a moment to let it all sink in. She was standing by the front door of the flat they shared. That morning, she had woken to the smell of fresh coffee, just like Delia had promised. The sun had spilled through the thin curtains of their bedroom, filling the room with a soft, peaceful glow, to accompany the song Delia was happily humming away in the kitchen. As Delia rushed off, Patsy had quickly wrapped her scarf around her neck, because it made her heart swell to think of that tiny part of herself going off to work with her.

After a couple of beats, she herself turned off and headed down the road to Nonnatus House. There was a spring in her step, as she waltzed through mothers pushing prams, clutching children's hands; men in tired business suits, heading off to work. Sister Julienne had given her a couple of days to settle in, but she'd promised to still come for lunch, and besides, her things were still there, lining the wardrobe she shared with Trixie, her neat row of photographs still stuck above her headboard. It felt odd to be without her bicycle in the day time. Still, she reminded herself, as she reached the large stone steps leading up to the place she had called home for over a year, everything was to be different now.

For the first time in a very long time, she felt content, not a single worry lingering in the back of her mind. She was a tense person; guarded, even. And, if she were honest, she had every reason to be. But somehow, she didn't think she need worry so much, not today. Tomorrow, possibly. She wasn't naïve enough to believe that the struggles she and Delia shared were to be forgotten now, but there was something to be said for waking up in the same bed as the one you loved, and not having to scurry out in the early hours of the morning, for fear of being caught. Perhaps she wasn't entirely safe now, but she still felt it. She'd still sunk into her mattress the night before, Delia curled around her, and felt completely and utterly at ease. Not to mention absurdly happy.

Once she entered the large hallway that lead through to the main house, she called out to see if anyone were home. Again, it felt odd. Her key still fit the door, and the building still felt the same, looked the same, smelt the same, but it _wasn't_ the same. Nobody answered to her call, and she decided everybody must be busy. It was unusual but not unheard of for everybody – even Sister Monica Joan – to be busily working at this time of the morning. She imagined Trixie and Barbara at the clinic; Sister Julienne and Sister Winifred on midwifery rounds; Nurse Crane, Sister Evangelina, and Sister Mary Cynthia treating their usual district patients. Everything ticked along like always. Just because she was out of the equation for a while, it didn't mean the whole world would stop turning. That was a surprisingly comforting thought to somebody who barely stopped working.

She was up in the bedroom, sorting clothes into a box to cart home, when she heard the commotion downstairs, and immediately moved to the landing to see what was the matter. A mother in unexpected labour, perhaps, or another emergency down at the clinic. Whatever it was, it was surely more important than folding clothes. She stood at the top of the stairs and could just make out Sister Winifred's high-pitched, frantic, voice.

"Whatever's the matter?" she called, starting down the stairs at once.

Nurse Crane, who had seemingly appeared from nowhere, turned white as a sheet, and before Patsy could question anything, Sister Winifred was throwing her arms tightly around her and squeezing her half to death.

"I only left a day ago-"

It was then that she noticed the dampness of the Sister's cheeks, as she hurriedly wiped away tears. Her blue eyes were bloodshot, and her breathing laboured. She held Patsy tightly by the shoulders.

"There was a horrible accident, and I saw your scarf, and I couldn't help but think the worse. Thank heavens you are alright and in one piece!"

The words filtered through in a jumble and Patsy's confusion quickly turned to dread, a sudden aching fire in the pit of her stomach, her throat dry, and tears pricking at her own eyes as she realised, gaping at Sister Winifred in horror.

"What do you mean my scarf..."

"Yes, and your bicycle!"

A sudden rush of heat, a ringing in her ears, her whole body numb, but every hair sticking up all at once, and she swallowed back the large lump that had begun to manifest in the back of her throat, only managing to get one word out before she fled: "Delia."

She was vaguely aware of the others following behind her, but she couldn't pause to look back, running as fast as her feet would take her, out the front door and into the street, her legs wobbly under her weight, her heart pounding in her ears. She didn't know where she was going. Sister Winifred was calling after her, her voice still laced with worry and tears, and shock that hadn't quite melted away yet. The same shock which Patsy felt now, flooding her senses and ridding her of any rational thought. She arrived, her breath laboured, and knew at once that this was the place. The small crowd of people were beginning to disband, but she could still see her bicycle at the side of the road, discarded, a wheel missing.

Her legs almost buckling underneath her, she continued to move forward, until her eyes met the pavement, and her heart leapt into her throat. The sight of blood had never phased her before, but now she went running to the side of the pavement, gagging.

Sister Winifred, who had since caught up to her, bundled her easily into her small arms and clutched Patsy close to her, stroking her head. Somewhere, behind the tears and the muddle of 'what ifs' that were already streaming her thoughts, was a distinct voice telling her that she needed to stop, that she needed to gather herself together, and be strong. Sister Winifred gazed at Nurse Crane helplessly, and then back at Patsy, rubbing her back in a soothing motion, and it struck her that these people had no idea what was happening to her. She struggled free of them, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand, and composing herself.

Not for the first time, she needed to be strong. She needed to take charge. She needed to be the person Delia needed her to be.

* * *

_She's dead_. It was repeating over and over and over in her mind as she walked back to Nonnatus. _She's lying beneath a sheet somewhere and she's dead._ Sister Winifred hadn't reached the scene in time, didn't know what had happened, was still flustered by that initial moment of horror when she thought it was Patsy there lying in the gravel. _It should have been_. She couldn't stop re-enacting their morning together. If she hadn't done this, if she hadn't spent so long doing that. If only they had been on time, Delia would be safe.

Patsy dialed the number for the London with trembling fingers that won't work properly, and then she waited. She was entirely aware of the fact she had an audience. She was all too aware – though she swallowed it, pretending it didn't existence – that this was drawing attention to her, and in any other situation, she would avoid it at all costs.

When the voice on the other end of the line told her nothing, it was all she could do not to slam the phone against the wall and smash it to pieces. She knew, somewhere, in the back of her mind, that that would be the answer. But she had had to call anyway.

_If they won't tell me anything, she probably isn't dead._

The thought barely registered. She couldn't concentrate with how unfair everything was, how much everything hurt. _They're only letting her see her nearest and dearest._ The words ached through her like a bullet wound, but she remained composed, told herself she was not going to cry again. It was a familiar feeling, easy to slip back into. Delia's voice unexpectedly rung out in her ears and she willed it away, squeezed her eyes closed until tiny stars danced about before her eyelids, but it was still there. _You cope better with facades than I do._

* * *

She always felt uneasy going back to the London, despite the friends who still worked there, and the years of memories she'd built on the premises, or perhaps because of. Until now, the London was Delia. The only part of it she longed for, was Delia.

She paced up and down the corridor, the bunch of flowers feeling foreign in her grip. Delia loved flowers, but Patsy had never once bought them for her. Silently, she decided that as soon as all of this was over, she would treat her to flowers every week. Every day, even.

Finally, a shape from within the room approached the door, and she froze, too afraid to look through the cloudy glass for fear of what she might find on the other side.

Although Mrs Busby sounded like Delia, she looked nothing like her. Her eyes were dark, her hair a dirty blonde. She didn't have the same soft expression, the soft pink lips, the round rosy cheeks. Perhaps, on a good day, but not today. Patsy swallowed, wondering if it was too late to go back. Delia had her mother; did she even need her at all?

No.

Patsy fixed the cheeriest smile she could muster to her face, and introduced herself. As soon as she noticed the lack of recognition in Delia's mothers eyes, the smile faltered.

And then.

"OH! Of course, you're the lady she helps with cubs!"

_I can't do this_, she thought, but it didn't show. Delia was right. She was better at facades. Stiff upper lip, and all that. But with every word this stranger - who she thought should feel familiar, but didn't – said, she could feel her strength crumbling, feel her entire body's will to continue this charade slip like grains of sand through her finger tips. _Spells. Seizures. Memory loss. _The words got caught in her throat as she repeated them, blinking back tears that she didn't feel worthy to cry. It wasn't her place to cry. It would do no good.

She had to be strong.

* * *

It didn't seem so bad at first. Delia didn't talk right away, but she was responsive. Her hair was scraped back from her face, and she had cuts and bruises and scratches from where she'd struck the road, but she still looked like Delia. She still had a faint smell of her, beneath the hospital chemicals, and the crisp, uncomfortable sheets. Patsy did what Patsy did best, and talked shop. All completely logical and practical and not the least bit sentimental. She waited until Delia's mother had gone before she so much as touched her, though she longed so much for the warmth of her skin, to be sure that she were real, and not a sleep-deprived hallucination.

When she reached for her hand, she felt Delia tense.

It was always Delia who snatched her hand mid-conversation, or who covered hers in a cafe, unaware of prying eyes. Always Delia who looped an arm through hers, or who placed a hand on her knee at the dinner table.

But Delia pulled away.

She knew it, then. She'd known it as soon as she sat down with her, but she hadn't allowed herself to really think about it, to digest the information. But then, as she gazed into Delia's beautiful blue eyes, as she had so many times before, she wasn't met with the look of adoration she had grown accustomed to. She was met with confusion.

Delia looked like a child. Cautious and wide-eyed and as though she longed to soak every little bit of information in. She spoke slower, her accent more pronounced.

She felt the tears begin to drip down her face before she had even registered that she was crying, and then she couldn't stop. Delia continued to speak, in the background, but she was this small, fragile, incomplete version of the woman Patsy loved, and every word felt more like a stab to the heart, and she couldn't bear to look at her any longer.

* * *

"You're a good friend to still be here, all these hours later,"

Patsy looked up, tried to will herself to smile, but ultimately, gave up. She didn't want niceties. She didn't want to be told how good a friend she was.

She hadn't left, because she couldn't.

It was as though her legs were glued to the uncomfortable hard-back chair she was planted in. She couldn't stop thinking about the morning it had happened, running over that last hour they'd spent together over and over and over as if maybe if she concentrated hard enough, she could go back to it, and try again.

Delia's mother handed her a tissue, and she gazed through it, her eyes no longer able to focus on anything.

"They won't give us any promises... just hope..."

Hope, Patsy decided, was a dangerous thing. Hope had been what led her to believe that she would finally get her happy ending. She had been foolish enough to let herself believe that she might get to be with the person who made her happiest, and to not have that ripped away from her two days later, just as it had been when she was a child.

Patsy sniffed, finally forcing herself out of the daze she'd fallen into. Her eyes groggily focussed on the woman seated next to her, and she managed the tiniest of smiles.

"She's asleep just now... Always such a peaceful sleeper. Just like she was as a baby."

"Yes," Patsy said, despite herself. Mrs Busby frowned, just a little.

There was an awkward silence, and then: "She's going to need to be cared for every hour of the day. I'd best get looking into the best place for her."

Snapping out of her thoughts, Patsy turned sharply, "the best place for her?'

"The specialists recommended I take her back to Wales, back to the family home, of course. But I don't know that I could look after her properly... she's not a baby any longer, and I'm not as young as I once was..." she watched a tear as it made its way slowly down Delia's mother's face, for the first time seeing a similarity between her and her daughter, and it wrenched at her heart, "sorry, sorry, I'm try to be so strong for her..."

_Me too,_ Patsy wanted to say, but didn't.

She could taste bile again. The thought of Delia miles and miles away, whilst Patsy attempted to piece her own life back together, making her feel sick. What would happen to the flat? She certainly couldn't live there alone, with every inch of it making her long for what could have been – what should have been; the detailed plans Delia had drawn up for what they would do with the place once they had the time, and the money.

How would she be able to go on, without her?

"I suppose we might get a full time nurse, or look into putting her into some kind of residential-"

"No," the word slipped out before she could stop it.

Mrs Busby turned to her with wide, surprised eyes, but she looked defeated, "sweetheart, I don't know what else I could do."

"Then," Patsy said, suddenly feeling a lot stronger, a lot bolder, making up her mind on the spot, "let me take care of her."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Hopefully if you're reading this it means you made it through the questionable writing of chapter one (I apologise – I don't know why I thought trying to write at 5am was a good idea!). This chapter is mostly tying up some loose ends elsewhere in Patsy's story.

* * *

The words seemed to sink in slowly, and it felt like it took an age for Delia's mother to respond. Eventually, she took Patsy's hands, the gesture catching her off-balance, especially when one hand tenderly placed itself over the other, and she had to look away.

"I could never ask you to do that," she said, quietly, then letting her hands go.

Patsy moved her hand robotically into her lap and stared at it, then up at Delia's mother, "you haven't asked me. It's just... logical. You can't manage and I... I'm a nurse..."

Her words came out jumbled. She was always so eloquent with words, always ensured she knew exactly what she wanted to say before she said it; it was something she prided herself on. But now, she was floundering, struggling to find the right words, her mind too fixated on that thought of Delia returning to Wales, and her being left, alone again.

Delia's mother looked curiously at her, and now that they were closer, Patsy could see her eyes clearer now, and they were a very dark blue, much darker than her daughter's, but she could still see a similarity in them, in the way they searched hers. She quickly looked away, and cleared her throat. The corridor felt too quiet. She could hear the clock ticking away behind them, somewhere in the distance, the quiet noise of shoes squeaking against freshly cleaned floors. Delia's mother continued to stare at her.

"You really care about her, don't you?" she said, after a long moment.

_More than you could ever know_.

"We were going to be roommates. We had just moved into a flat."

Mrs Busby's expression shifted slightly.

"She didn't tell you." Patsy's heart sank.

"No, no... well, she doesn't talk about her friends, or her life here, all that much. We don't have a telephone, and she doesn't have time to write all that often..."

_But she still told you who I was_, Patsy thought, swallowing the lump that was forming in the back of her throat, blinking back the first hint of fresh tears.

"Are you sure you'd be willing to... I mean, it's a big commitment," she glanced at the door, not for the first time, and then back at Patsy, "we don't know if she'll ever get better."

_But I have to be there if she does._

"I know that... and it's a chance I am willing to take." Patsy forced a smile, meeting her eyes again.

* * *

Trixie stared at her, her eyes even wider than usual. She was sitting on Patsy's bed, whilst Patsy hurriedly packed more and more items from their bedroom into a large cardboard box at her feet. Unusually, the record player was off, and Trixie's glass by the side of the bed was empty. Patsy ignored the way she was looking at her, instead continuing to sort her belongings into two messy piles on the floor.

"You can't be serious!" Trixie finally gasped, grabbing Patsy's wrist mid-reach, "Surely, you can't? The hospital wouldn't allow it..."

Patsy pulled her arm free and tossed her an incredulous look, "why ever not? I'm a nurse. Who could possibly be more qualified to look after her than me?"

"But wouldn't she be better off at home? In surroundings that might still be familiar to her? With her parents?"

"The flat _is_ her home," Patsy said, scooping up a pile of books and not caring when one toppled over onto the floor, the rest of them landing in the box with a soft thud. She continued, ignoring the book on the floor, moving with less care and more frustration.

"Please put that down and speak to me. I know I haven't been a very good friend through all of this, but I still care about you." Trixie stood, gently taking Patsy's wrist again, and staring at her. Her expression was entirely different from the Trixie Patsy had befriended before, the Trixie who was constantly nagging her to get a boyfriend, and who she'd got up to plenty of hi-jinxes with before all of this had happened, and they'd drifted apart. She looked tired.

It was as much Patsy's fault as it was Trixie's that they'd ended up like this; two people living in the same space but never really being in it together. Physically, but not in any other way. They still spoke to one another, of course, but somewhere along the lines, the deep threads of friendship that they'd developed over the year Patsy had been at Nonnatus had begun to sever, and they'd begun to drift in and out of each other's lives, barely spending more than a passing moment together. She remembered that at one point, she'd almost considered telling Trixie everything. She'd at least hinted often enough, almost hoping that Trixie might pick up on it, might ask the right questions, and the weight could have been lifted. But she never had.

"I can't let her go back to Wales," Patsy finally said, "I just can't."

Trixie thought for a moment, her eyes drooping then lifting again to meet Patsy's, "I didn't want to say goodbye to Jenny. Or Chummy. Or Cynthia. But I understood that there were places they had to be, that they had to do what was best for them, so I let them go."

"This isn't the same as Cynthia going to a convent for a few months – she came back. Jenny still writes you letters. Chummy still comes back at the first hint of a party," she could feel anger swelling through her, and it was making her throat dry, tears prick at her eyes again, like her body was disobeying her attempts to be strong, "if Delia goes back to Wales... she... she doesn't get the chance to remember me. I go back to being nothing. I can't bear to be nothing again, I-"

She gave into the tears that were already spilling down her cheeks and crumbled against Trixie, who had immediately put her arms around her, holding her tightly against her. She looked shocked, and Patsy realised – somewhere, in the back of her mind – that this was the first time she had ever shown any sort of real emotion around her. She never cried in front of anybody, except Delia. She always worked so hard at hiding everything, at not letting anybody see. But now she couldn't fight it any longer. She knew nobody understood. She knew that she wasn't going to be allowed to mourn in the way she should (and she was mourning; she was mourning everything Delia had ever been, because the small, fragile child she'd visited in the hospital was _not_ Delia) because having a friend be in an accident shouldn't feel like having your heart ripped out of your chest, but it did. She felt numb, empty inside. And nobody would ever be able to understand that.

"You're not nothing, Patsy," Trixie whispered, rubbing her back, and Patsy felt herself tense because it suddenly struck her that, aside from Delia, it had been so long since she had been held like this that it didn't feel right.

She pulled free of Trixie and wiped at her face, moving backwards until the backs of her knees struck the bed, and she sat down rigidly, still mopping at her eyes. Trixie perched on her own bed, and for a moment they were silent.

"It was jealousy, you know. The reason I pushed you away, became more distant. I was jealous."

Patsy looked up from her lap, raised her eyebrows, but couldn't find anything to say.

"Cynthia left, and... everything with Tom happened... and I felt replaced because you spent every hour of the day with Delia. Even the way you talked about her. I felt jealous. Jealous and alone. You were happy and I know I shouldn't have begrudged you that but... I missed you, and I missed having _somebody."_ Trixie wiped at her own face, at the tears threatening, and forced a smile across at Patsy, "I am dreadfully sorry, you know?"

Patsy's teeth troubled her top lip as she tried to work out an appropriate response, tried to work through everything Trixie had just told her. She felt guilty. Looking back at the last few weeks – months, even – she couldn't remember the last time she and Trixie had done anything just the two of them. She'd brought Delia up in practically every conversation. Even at the square dance, she'd been glued to Delia's side. She had known what Trixie was going through – maybe she hadn't picked up on it outrightly, but she couldn't deny seeing the signs, and pushing them to the back of her mind – but she hadn't so much as offered her a listening ear. It had been so easy to say to herself 'if Trixie needs me, she'll ask'; she hadn't bothered to try and reach out to her, because looking after Trixie might interfere with seeing Delia. Even those times, when she had suggested that perhaps she ought to stay behind, and keep her company, she'd left at the first encouragement, like it was obvious that was the choice she wanted Trixie to make for her, like she was only being polite by suggesting she might stay.

And in the last few weeks, since she and Delia had made plans to move out, Patsy had been entirely blind to everything else. She hadn't even told Trixie she was leaving; Sister Julienne had announced it at the dinner table.

"I'm sorry too," she said, swallowing, "I've been an awful friend at a time you've really truly needed one."

Trixie smiled, awkwardly fidgeting, "I don't understand how any of this year has happened. Whatever happened to those two women we were this time last year? Or even when poor Barbara arrived! I can't remember the last time we laughed as much."

"You might laugh – you weren't the one handling the mop!" Patsy said, grinning back.

They both laughed, and suddenly Patsy felt her heart drop all over again. She had managed a whole five minutes without thinking about Delia, without imagining her in her hospital bed, confused and frightened and altogether not the Delia Busby she knew. But now she had remembered, and it all came flooding back.

"Do you really think I ought to let her go home?" she said, suddenly turning serious once more.

Trixie thought for a moment, then shook her head, slowly, "no. I think you need her here, just as much as she's going to need you. I'll just... miss you."


	3. Chapter 3

Patsy's fingers trembled and refused to work as she attempted to slot the key into the front door of the flat she had only days ago left behind with a contented smile and a sense of excitement that made her heart flutter. She had avoided it for four days. Between working, and visiting Delia in the hospital, she hadn't made it back here, not that she had exactly made any effort towards trying. Trixie had insisted she stay at Nonnatus, and she'd accepted mostly because she knew there was no way she would get any kind of rest here, alone, in the bed she was supposed to share with Delia, in their home. Not that she had managed to find much solace in her old bed, either. Still, she had put off coming face to face with the ghosts of her new home, and now that she was here, she wasn't so sure she shouldn't have waited a little longer.

She paused, and tried to stabilize herself. She imagined Delia taking her hands, clutching them between her own as she had done so often. Patsy had always been jealous of how easy it was for Delia to do that, to be open about how she felt toward her, so brave and unashamed of everything. Though it had often made her nervous, she'd also never felt safer.

Once the door was finally unlocked, and she had lifted the heavy boxes that she'd carried over from Nonnatus (sans her bicycle; she hadn't even touched her replacement one, and knew she wouldn't be doing so for a long time yet), she moved inside and closed the door heavily behind her.

Flicking the light switch on, Patsy's chest tightened. She gazed around the room, and her throat went dry. This was the first time she had been in the building without Delia. Every part of the room felt empty without her presence in it. She could still hear the ghost of her voice in every corner, could still see her sitting cross legged on the floor, her face lit up, as she gushed about all the plans she had for this place. For their home.

Resting her back against the wall, Patsy closed her eyes. She briefly wondered if she should have put this off a little longer, but she knew that there would never be a time when this was easier, and there was too much to do to just leave it to fester without her. Delia had loved every inch of this home. Even the parts of it that Patsy had looked at with scepticism – even that awful old jug on the window ledge – Delia had seen potential in. And in turn, she'd managed to make Patsy believe in it all.

That Delia was gone. She might never come back, never remember any of the dreams they'd created together. But that didn't mean their dream home should just fade away into nothingness.

Prying herself away from the wall, Patsy set to work. She picked up the glasses and the plates from their first meal together, trying to swallow down any sentimentality. (She was an expert at it, after all. But somehow, when it came to Delia, it was more difficult to pretend.) She dumped the dishes into the whicker basket that had once contained their picnic dinner, and moved it to one side to deal with later. She rolled the blanket up, and slipped it on top.

She thought she might feel better, but she didn't. She surveyed the small difference she had made, and besides erasing all evidence that Delia had ever even been there, it was nothing. Shaking her head lightly, trying to shake that thought, she continued, picking up the bucket packed with cleaning products that she and Delia had organised merely days ago. There was so much to do. She had wanted to get started right away, but Delia had insisted they spend their first night just enjoying being alone, in their own home, and in all honesty, Patsy was glad. She would always have that memory, even if she never got to have another good one. Even if Delia never remembered it. They would always have that first night.

Rifling through, her fingers wrapped around a bottle of bleach, and her heart almost leapt into her throat all over again, remembering Delia's words from the week before. She shook it off, lifting the bottle out, and setting to work with a cloth.

* * *

Patsy placed the jug on the now spotless window ledge, the bunch of white and yellow chrysanthemums she had meant for Delia now residing within the ugly little jug. It had character, she decided, rubbing her thumb over the pattern brandished on the side of it. She had promised Delia flowers would always occupy this space, and even if Delia weren't there to see it, she was keeping her promise.

She sat heavily in the middle of the floor, and reviewed the room again. It had taken her several hours, and she had cleaned until her fingers were red and raw, but it was finally looking like a home.

That didn't make it feel any less empty though.

As the sun began to rise, Patsy stared up at the large window, obscured only by the thin net curtain, and the bunch of flowers. Just as Delia had described, the flowers begun to glow, surrounded by a halo of sunlight, and for a brief moment, the room was bathed in an almost heavenly glow. Patsy couldn't drag her eyes away, as a soft smile reached her lips, and she felt again as though she might cry, but this time, it was different. She felt a shift. Like something meaningful had just happened. Like everything was going to slot into place and finally, maybe, be okay.

She had never been one for grand gestures of emotion or symbolism or sentimentality, but this was different. As she pulled herself up onto her feet, she couldn't help but feel an odd presence in the room with her. She had felt more alone than ever in her life over the last 72 hours, but all of a sudden, she felt an odd sense of contentment wash over her, and the smile that tugged at her lips grew, reaching her eyes for the first time in days.

There was a knock at the door.

Patsy turned reluctantly away from the window, and turned toward the doorway. Who would be calling at this hour of the morning? She didn't even know anybody, had only just moved in here. She hadn't exactly sent out change of address cards. Hesitantly, she went to the door. She felt almost afraid of what she might find on the other side of it; someone having been sent to tell her Delia had deteriorated, or worse, perhaps? Again, her hand was shaky, but she fought through it, reaching for the door handle and opening it wide.

On the other side, Trixie wore an impatient expression, "I couldn't sleep," she said, nonchalantly, obviously trying to disguise the real reasons behind her excursion. Her eyes gave her away.

"Nor could I," Barbara admitted, appearing from somewhere behind Trixie, far more sheepishly, brandishing a cake tin, and a flask of what Patsy hoped was coffee.

* * *

When she arrived at the hospital that afternoon, a fresh bunch of flowers in her hands, she felt immediately as though something was wrong. She felt stupid, and tried to brush that overwhelming feeling of unease off, as she walked down the corridor, along the now all too familiar route to Delia's bedside. She ground to a halt by the door, able to hear the soft tones of Delia's mother's voice even from outside, laced with tears. Patsy squeezed her eyes closed, trying to compose herself. Before she could bring herself to push the door open, Delia's mother appeared, still dabbing at her bloodshot eyes with a tissue.

"Oh, Patsy, dear. You're here."

"What's happened?" Patsy asked, her voice coming out more frantic than she had hoped.

Delia's mother took her hand, squeezing it tight, and for a moment all the colour drained from Patsy's face. Her heart felt as though it might stop beating entirely. She braced herself for the worst, knowing it was coming, and praying she wouldn't crumble to pieces.

"They're discharging her," Mrs. Busby said, finally, her face lighting up ever so slightly, "she's coming home."

* * *

"Who is it?" Delia asked, in the same quiet, guarded, careful way she had spoken before, as Patsy entered the room. Patsy longed for the boisterous teasing she had come to expect from her, wondered if she would ever get used to this new version of the woman she loved.

"It's Patsy, sweetheart. You know, your friend Patsy."

Her eyebrows furrowed for a second, and there was a sadness in her eyes as she tried to remember, "oh. Yes. Patsy. Hello, Patsy."

She knew Delia didn't remember, that she was saying her name over and over in the hopes it would feel less foreign, that she might remember it, when she couldn't even remember her own name, or her mother's. But it still felt good to hear it. Even in this new, delicate voice, it felt good.

"Hello," she said, sitting down heavily at the side of the bed, and placing the flowers beside her, "I hear you're being allowed to come home."

Delia glanced at her mother, and then back at Patsy, and finally at her lap, watching her own fingers as she wrung her hands together.

Patsy swallowed, awkwardly, not really knowing what to do. She could feel Delia's mother hovering behind her, obviously waiting for Delia to speak, but she didn't. There was an awkward pause.

"Well," Delia's mother eventually said, forcing a light laugh, "how about I leave you two to talk for a while whilst I go and get us all a cup of tea."

Visibly startled, Delia turned to her mother, "no! Please... don't."

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you so much for the reviews and follows etc. - it means a lot to know people are reading and enjoying. The scene this chapter was mostly a rewrite of is probably my favourite scene from Sunday's episode, as I think the whole thing was beautifully done, so I hope I've done it some justice.


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